Dark Lord Rising: The Secret History of the Second Age
by LordofAngmarMB
Summary: Before there was One Ring to Rule Them All, there was Mordor, wild and untamed. Orcs and Men battle for control of the lordless realm. Chaos rules, but there is One Being willing to demand order. Inspired by The Akallabeth, Of the Rings of Power, Shadow of Mordor, and Shadow of War, Dark Lord Rising will reveal the secret history of Mordor and Sauron, the Lord of the Rings.
1. Chapter 1: The Fire Before the Storm

**Chapter One: The Fire Before the Storm**

* * *

 _Chaos is cruel._

 _Disorder is death_

 _Anarchy is a tumor on the face of Arda. Those spawned from its seed are naught but corruption to stripped from the diseased flesh._

 _Mordor was infested with the children of chaos before I arrived. Orcs and Men butchered each other for a lordless realm. Armies rotted across the Plains of Gorgoroth. Demons haunted the forests of Nurn. And each worm writhed and squirmed in the pile, fighting for a fleeting glimpse of the sun at the top of their mound of filth. This was the world that the Valar left after the War of Wrath, a world of struggle, of disorder, of death._

 _And as Mordor suffered without a master, the world suffered too without a lord. A lord with the will to demand order. A lord who could strip away the festering flesh and guide it back to health. A lord who could crush the servants of chaos under his iron heel._

 _A lord like me._

 **Mazuk: I**

* * *

The stench of an unwashed horde seeped under the thin wood door that separated Mazuk from his raging audience. He took a deep breath in through his nostrils, letting the miasma fill his blood with their manic energy. He let the air linger in his chest for a moment then slowly pushed the air out through clenched teeth. The Chieftain needed to keep his mind sharp and his body in constant tension. That was the only way to keep their attention and their energy focused on their leader and not each other's throats. He had practiced and perfected the kind of showmanship his people demanded on these occasions: the rousing speech, the contemptuous snarling, the display of his physical prowess, and the bloody execution for the finale. One wrong word or one sign of hesitation could send the entire hall into chaos or, even worse, lead to his premature removal from his office. Readying himself, he pressed his powerful hand against the door but was stopped from opening it by the presence of a spindly figure that appeared beside him.

"Chief," the hoarse voice seemed at odds with its whispery constraint, "Ya' know what happened with this bugger? What he did?"

"Yes." Mazuk forced no power into the word, though it still resonated with a baritone rumble.

"Ya' know it wasn't…" he was stopped by a sidelong glare from the chief's ember-red eyes, "Ya' already decided on the sentence, I'm guessin'?"

The Chief nodded.

"Good."

The Chief moved again to open the door, but a clammy hand on his bare shoulder stopped him.

"We need ta' talk." he sounded gravely serious, "I'll be at ya' place. We'll figure out our next move then. Put on a good show, Chief."

The hand released his shoulder and Mazuk took another breath before he moved. He was not in the mood for a trial. He was never in the mood for a trial. They put too much fire in his blood and not enough clarity in his head. He hated them, though they kept the young warriors happy and in line. _A necessary inconvenience._

Mazuk drew in a final breath and threw himself through the door and onto a platform that overlooked the vast Great Hall of A'vykot. The scores of manically excited orcs that filled the hall were cast in harsh firelight, looking more like an army of chaotic demons and wraiths than living beings, though he knew that the most terrifying of these figures was himself. Mazuk stormed onto the center of the stage, lifting his voice into a dreadful roar that drowned out the din from the crazed crowd. He stood over seven feet tall, a dread deity looming over his worshipers. His face was contorted into a snarl and he wore a crown of Caragor fangs over his black braided hair. The firelight made his ashen skin gleam like copper and the many scars that covered his toned brawn stood out like crags on a plain of sharp dunes. Mazuk looked down and sneered. At his feet, an orc, an unimposing figure with an youthful face, was chained to the ground and his mouth was stuffed with a filthy rag.

"My sons, who am I?" Mazuk thundered, turning his attention to the crowd.

"MAZUK AR'UDARUG, THE HOLY CHIEF!"

"By that name I stand before you! We Uruks live by one Law! One Law that was given to me by the great A'vocyr himself!"

"FIGHT LIKE AN URUK!" the congregation shouted in unison, "KILL LIKE AN URUK! DIE LIKE AN URUK!"

"Good! That's my boys! I know that each and every one of you would live, fight, and die by that law, but this coward, this filth at my feet disobeyed it! While his brothers fought and died at West-Field, he fled from that band of spider-worshiping man-filth! Our crops burned! Our women and our broods were slaughtered! His brothers were butchered! Yet this red-blooded wretch has the gual to live! I ask you. what kind of death should this miserable pile of shrak get?"

"Flay 'im from the stones up!" and "Boil him alive and give us some shrak soup!" were among the answers that broke out of the storm of suggestions, though Mazuk pretended to take an interest in the muffled screams of the prisoner. He yanked the rag from his mouth, ripping out a few teeth along with it, and made a show of listening to the sniveling wretch.

"Please, mercy!" the prisoner sobbed, "I beg ya' Chief, mercy!"

"You hear that boys? He wants mercy. Any other night, I'd let all these true black-bloods have their way with you, but tonight I'm feeling merciful. I'll give you one last chance to prove your worth, maggot!"

Mazuk took an enormous battle-axe from its resting place and shattered the chains that held the prisoner in one mighty lob. The poor orc was terrified by his freedom. He, like every other orc born in the brood pits, heard the legends of the mighty Ar'udarug Mazuk. Mazuk who led his people out of the ruins of war and into their promised land of Ar'uzaan. Mazuk who communed with A'vocyr and spoke the holy words. Mazuk who slew a thousand men and a thousand elves in the Battle of Wrath and will do so again in the Last Battle before the Endless Night. Mazuk who he now had to fight for his life.

Someone in the crowd tossed a sword at the prisoner, who clambered to pick it up and shuffled into a defensive position. Mazuk raised his axe above his head and let out a vicious roar which was echoed by the blood-thirsty audience. The prisoner shrieked and charged blindly at the Chief, hoping to catch him off guard. _Pathetic._ He stepped out of the uruk's charge and bashed his face with the butt of his axe. The prisoner hit the ground like a sack and his nose was crushed into a bloody mess. _This kid doesn't deserve this._ Mazuk grabbed the uruk by the hair, dragged him to his feet, and threw him across the stage. _Poor fool was just at the wrong place at the wrong time._ He tossed his axe to the ground and stopped another of the orc's blind charges with an outstretched arm. He easily wrestled the prisoner to his knees and clenched his head between his powerful hands. The crowd before him billowed like a hive of infuriated insects. _The poor bastards_. So many generations had passed, yet the corruption of Morgoth still dominated their minds. The survivors he had dragged away from the ruins of Angband had been little more than mindless drones, living for nothing but the orders they were given. Some life and some free will had returned to them after so many years, but they were still dominated by the desire to please their master and their hunger for blood. _At least they serve a kinder lord now._

"Death! Death! Death!" the crowd chanted, shaking their fists and blades in unison. Mazuk, steeling his mind from the screams of pain, began to twist and wrench the victim's head away from his shoulders. Even as his bones cracked and his muscles snapped, the orc kept screaming. He was finally silenced when his neck ripped and his head was torn clean from his body. A torrent of black blood poured from the stump, showering the front row in oily life. They lapped it up, becoming frenzied as they devoured his essence. Mazuk lifted the still-twitching head above him, drenching his face in black. He hated the savagery of it, though he had to admit, the blood tasted quite fine. He might have been the least barbaric orc in the hall, but he was still an orc who could enjoy the simple pleasures. After showering himself in the black rain, he tossed the head into the crowd, striking a young orc in the face. Before the boy even fit the ground, he was set upon by his fellows, tearing him apart for the change to claim the head.

"Let that be a lesson for you boys!" Mazuk pounded his chest and reached upwards, "The Law is unbreakable! A'vocyr will get his dues in battle or in a trail! Will you die like an Uruk on the battle field? Or will you die like this sod? Now feast by sons!"

Mazuk tossed the body into the crowd and turned back to the door before he had to watch the commanded feast. He slipped out of the hall and took in a gasp of the chill night air. Wiping a wad of blood out of his face and clearing the blood from his mind, Mazuk stalked away from the Great Hall. Even in the darkness, he could feel the Hall's shadow over him. It was the largest structure his orcs had ever built, standing three stories tall and as long and wide as any of the men-folk's great houses. It lacked any kind of artistry and was quite an ugly sight, but it was solid and it was their own. He recalled the dred glory of Angband, Morgoth's old fortress and the place of his birth. Its towers pierced the clouds and its gate could swallow a dragon whole. It was forged of cruel, rusted iron and fire bellowed out of its pits. It was beautiful in a terrible way, yet his people were nothing but slaves there. Everything was made for the glory of their god-king. They were treated with no more respect than the men-thralls enslaved during the wars. He was lucky. He was born with some free will and a body worthy of the that will. He managed by luck and will to earn enough respect to command legions. And thus he had been able to save his people from the Wrath.

Mazuk wandered up the path leading to his longhouse at the topmost peak of the sharp hill of A'vykot. How many years had it been since he had founded this city? Was it three-hundred, or was it closer to four? He glanced back at the township below him. Like the great hall at its center, it was ugly. Wooden shacks and stone huts were scattered randomly within the simple walls containing the chaos. The stables in the eastern district blew the stench of manure over the city. The moans and screams from the breeding huts in the western district were echoed and amplified by the surrounding canyon walls. Surely there were better ways to plan a city, but that was not the point. He let them carve their own path, lay their own groundwork. No thought, no planning, no cruel grand scheme. This was how his orcs were meant to live. Reveling in their own chaos.

Mazuk finally reached his home and fell into a bench in his front garden. He almost fell asleep in the waning moonlight when a familiar voice ripped him from his rest.

"Mazuk, I…Don't give me that look," A tall, gangly orc with a gaunt face and a rotten eye stood next him, "You knew I was going to wait here."

"I didn't forget, Xurug, I was just hoping that you had."

The other orc fell into the bench beside him and nursed his pronounced forehead.

"Bloody headache," Xurug sighed, "Makes this plannin' all the harder"

"Then let's get it over with. I've got a bed being warmed by she-orcs who I'd rather be spending my night with."

Xurug chuckled half-heartedly, "Don't I know… Well the fact is, we've lost most of West-Field."

"Not for long, I got those boys so riled up that they'll have it back by next nightfall."

"Yeah, but they're not goina' regrow the crops or rebirth the broods by next nightfall. West-Field was our breadbasket, and the Spider just ate all the bread. We've got to start planning an offensive to take some of their own bread."

"No." Even without the act, Mazuk's voice still rumbled with authority, "Give these orcs an inch and they'll make it a mile. I know what war can do to an orc."

"I was there too ya' know. Or have you forgotten who helped you when we evacuated and who helped you come up with that shrak-filled story about communin' with Morgo-cyr what's-'is-name A'vo-goth. What you need to understand is that the chiefs below ya' are goinga' rebel if ya' don't loosen the lead. There are three clans in West-Field, all of which are goinga' call for your head if you don't let them take the fight to the men-folk."

Mazuk wiped another glob of blood out of his hair and flung it into the dust. "I…Send them the word: they have one chance to prove that they can restrain themselves if they fight. They can go as far as the Ash-border, no further."

"Thank you, you're makin' the right call 'ere."

Mazuk stood up and turned towards his door. "I hope you're right, old friend."

"So do I," Xurug stood and turned back towards his own shack, "Get some rest Chief. I'll letcha' know what happens tomorrow night."

Mazuk, finally free of his duties as the Holy Chief of the Last Great Tribe, entered his home, poured two buckets of steaming hot water over his head, and fell to sleep beside his women just as the sun began to peek over the Last Desert.

 **Shelob: I**

* * *

Some people claim that power is a curse. Some would take a life of mundane mediocrity over a life of godhood. Shelob never understood those people. Surely, they had never known what it was like to have the world at your fingertips. They had never felt the love and adoration of a thousand followers worshiping at their feet. They had never known the glee of playing judge, jury, and executioner. They could never imagine how much Shelob loved being a Goddess.

True, her subjects were primitive to say the least, but they were hers. Her temple was a cave adorned with inelegantly carved spiders and her own webs, but it was hers. The man that stood before her throne was nothing more than a commander of cave-dwelling savages, but his life was hers. And he had failed her.

"…and they came out of nowhere in the night! They slaughtered my men in their cots and had their way with the women we brought to farm before they gutted them. They split their children in two and hung their entrails from the trees! They…"

"They did all of this," Shelob's voice, sharp as knife and cold as a winter's night, silenced the man's rambling, "and you live to tell me? How?"

"I…I… I was up taking a piss outside the barn we used as a barracks. Me and a few other men saw them coming and…"

"And you ran?"

"N..not exactly…We wanted to warn the others, but it was too late. We only saw what happened from a distance."

Shelob's face didn't move. Her cold smile stayed frozen as she stood from her throne of webs and black stone. She knew the effect she had on mortals. The power of the contrast between her elegant, naked body and the nightmarish creature she could become at any moment. The captain stood entranced in awe at her beauty and terror, unable to flee as she strolled closer.

"I am your Goddess and you are my children," she let her voice carry about her chamber so that every one of her attendees could hear her judgment, "You, coward, let my sons die. You let my daughters be raped and gutted. You let my babes be slaughtered. You think you have escaped that painful death but you will know it a thousand times over."

With a single, sharp movement, her legs, those of her hidden form, pierced the man's shoulders. He screamed in pain as she drew him closer. She withdrew her fangs and drove them into his neck, forcing her venom into his veins. He was entwined in threads of shadow and he was hung, still living yet frozen as if dead, from the great web behind her seat of power. She reclined on her throne, casting her sharp black gaze across the chamber.

"You are dear to me, my children." Her voice was soft with warmth, yet her wrath was burning stronger by the moment, "I hunger for vengeance, and his judgment was but a morsel of what I need. Rally every sword. Rally every spear. Rally every man and woman strong enough to hold them and march on these beasts. Seed the earth with their blood. Feed upon their meat. And bring me their leader, alive, so that I may devour him. The time of the orc is over. The time of the Spiders is just beginning!"

Most people will never know the wrath a goddess feels over the slaughter of her people. Most will never know the venomous joy of seeing an army march for your vengeance. Shelob knew that feeling and she loved it. Even as she wrapped herself in robes of shadows and armor of shell, she could taste the black blood of her enemies. They would suffer for their transgressions, for Mordor was her domain and the Queen's Justice ruled absolutely.


	2. Chapter 2: The End of the Beginning

**Chapter 2**

* * *

 _The nature of the Elves is stagnation_

 _They would be content to lock themselves in their homely houses, singing and pontificating while the world crumbles around them._

 _The Second Children share this love of the status quo, but Orcs and Men would prefer eternal calamity to entertain them._

 _They will begin a war over a spot of worthless land and then keep the war going until that land becomes their mass grave._

 _This War was the Mordor that I would enter, one ravaged by two-hundred years of inane conflict. Warfare can be a powerful tool, as a fire to cleanse away the weak and as a catalyst to inspire innovation, but warfare for the sake of warfare is madness. A good war should have an end goal, a reason to fight that forces the strategists to move quickly and decisively. The war_ in _Mordor did not follow this philosophy. Ask the Orc Lord or the Spider for what reason they sent thousands of their followers to the grave and they would probably have no answer. Nothing of any actual value was lost, but nothing was gained in the War in Mordor. My future servants would need to learn how to play with the real conquerors before they could be of any use in my war._

 _The Real War._

 _The War of the Ring Lord._

 **Mazuk: II**

* * *

Idiots. He was surrounded by idiots. The nine chiefs of the nine remaining clans shouted at each other across the Great Hall. Shaka of Ghel'Yun cursed the entire bloodline of Ghel'Chada for losing a hill in the southern reaches of Gorgoroth while Blog of Ghel'Abal screamed inane gibberish to drown out the insults being levied at him by two other chiefs. Mazuk slumped back into his throne of carved bone and pressed his palms into his eyes. Two hundred years had passed since he had given his warriors leave to wage war against the Spider's Men. He should have known that the attack would escalate into a war, though nothing could have prepared him for two hundred agonizing years of constant, unchanging war. Even the years of wandering before they stumbled upon Mordor seemed like a pleasant evening stroll in comparison.

In the beginning, the situation had deceived him into expecting an easy victory. His Orcs were savage warriors and could breed seven new orcs for every one man of the Spider's Men, but the Spider Folk had proven to be skilled, innovative, and adaptable. When the war began, his forces had bronze weapons and armor, a vicious cavalry stocked by the most savage beasts of Mordor, and fortified villages surrounded by walls of stone. The men began with primitive iron and copper weapons and piles of rocks to call homes, but they learned fast. Within a year, the Spider started spawning new children, nightmarish creatures with poison in their fangs. Within fifty years, the Men had learned the secrets of steel, had carved fortress cities high in the mountains, and had mastered advanced tactics to counter the mindless surges his Orcs loved so much. The Spider began the war with a collection of mountain slopes in the deep south-west, but she now held nearly all of the Sea-land, the ranges of the West, and most of the plains of Gorgoroth. Mazuk was losing the war.

"QUIET!" he roared, silencing the crowd of squabbling chiefs. He eyed each of them, his gleaming ember stare breaking their defiance. "Are all of your forces ready for the attack?

The chiefs nodded in unison, though Kuzwak, chief of the foothills north of the Great Mountain, stepped forward with an insulting amount of confidence.

"Yeah, we're ready for your 'attack.' But what I don't get is why you've put my blood-riders in the far-right flank. We should be in the Vanguard!"

"Your Boar-riders are right where they should be." Xurug stepped out of the shadows behind the throne, jabbing a gnarled finger at the chief. The war had not been kind to the old-tactician. His belly had been sliced almost open during a battle in Nurn, and he had lost a leg and half a hand while escaping imprisonment in Nan Ungol. He had not been a pretty sight before the war, but, with each battle, he seemed more and more like a walking corpse. Fortunately, his mind had stayed sharp as ever, and his plan to change the tide of the war was coming along quite well. "Your bloody boars would get skewered in the Vanguard. I'd rather not lose our last half-decent cavalry to some idiot's lust for glory. You, Bolg, ya' get ya' screamers out of Nurn?"

Bolg, a stout orc with a constant look of madness in his eyes, began shaking even more violently while nodding.

"Good, and what about…"

The meeting carried on as such for another hour, with varying amounts of resistance from the chiefs. Mazuk knew his plan was risky, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The Spider's army had converged along the desert road and was marching towards A'vykot. Nearly ten-thousand men and over a thousand man-sized spiders were crawling towards their last bastion, and the city would inevitably be overrun if they were forced to defend it. Only a vicious and well-planned offensive could counter them, but that plan would require all the remaining tribes coming together. A plan easier said than done.

"That's enough for tonight," Mazuk grumbled when the most pertinent preparations were made and the chiefs' collective frustration was nearly ready to explode. "All of you get some rest; you'll need it. Any orc who starts trouble before the battle will be feed to the boars, am I clear?"

The chiefs nodded again and quickly scurried out of the long-house, more than ready to defy their new command. Mazuk pushed himself off of his throne and poured himself a mug of strong Grok. He emptied the cup in one swig, though the sour drink did little to calm his frustration. Xuruk poured one for himself and fell into the nearest chair.

"Bloody hell," he sighed, stretching out his remaining leg, "No wonder we're losing this war, our chiefs are idiots."

"And we aren't?"

Xurug laughed, though cut himself off when Mazuk made it clear that he wasn't joking.

"Eh, war's war. Even the best commanders fail. I mean look at what 'appened to Gothmog. He was a bloody good commander and an even better warrior, but he drowned in a fountain during his greatest victory."

"Thankfully there aren't any fountains on the desert road."

This time Xurug was allowed to laugh.

"This will be the last battle of this war."

"What do ya' mean?"

Mazuk stared into the dark depths of his empty mug, his mind wandering through a hundred possible futures.

"If we lose this battle, the Spider will overrun our land with no resistance. If we win, the Spider will decide that she's had enough. She will have her men fortify their new borders and keep us trapped here until we starve."

"At least we get to live a bit longer in one of those."

"Yes. Neither option is perfect, but we will need to fight for what we can get."

A long silence passed while both orcs refilled their drinks and their stomachs with Grok.

"Get some rest, boss." Xurug rubbed the scarred side of his half-hand while staring into nothing, "You have a big night tomorrow."

With that, they stood and took their separate paths, Xurug to his library and Mazuk to his home. He knew he would get no sleep, but he might at least give his mind some rest before the battle. One last day to rest my head.


End file.
